A/N: Hey! I've got some major writer's block now, so I'm writing on whatever inspiration I get. So, I'm trying my hand at an angsty thinggy whatever. This, however, is not Teen Titans, what I've been writing on so far, but Winx Club (my first on the series). It'll probably suck, but, hey, who cares! (Except everyone who wants to actually read a good story, that is. . .).
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Winx Club or anything except the plot, and some details are based on The Ranger's Apprentice, by John Flanagan.
Enough of my nervous rambling. Let's go!
. . .
The damp air swirled amid the thick trees, causing the mist to collect into timid, wavering shapes. The heat from the dry ground clashed with the frigid breeze, sending a feverish shiver up his spine. The underbrush chilled his skin as a sweat broke out on his forehead.
"Stupid magic," he began to mutter, but caught himself. Magic wasn't the problem, nor his lack of it. It was his mindset that was hindering him.
Why did I have to go on this mission? I could have said no, I really could have. But no, I say yes. Of course I did. . .
He carefully picked his way through the dense forest, concealed in a mottled, non-magical cloak. His movements were hidden to an unskilled eye, and even almost imperceptible to a trained sweeper. Even though his frame was larger than that of most specializing in unseen movement, he still excelled in that area.
Don't rely on magic to save you. . . Use what you find. . . You can use anything to your advantage. . . Magic is best countered with normal. . .
He chanted all he had learned in his head, keeping his focus on his task. He knew he was drawing closer; it felt right. And sounded right.
His grip on the hilt of one of his throwing blades tightened, grounding his mind and resisting the magic around him. Unlike the magenta, phanto-blade knife he had previously, these were made purely of metal, not the prettiest of weapons, but strong and made expertly, beautiful in its own way. The hilts were made of smooth leather, and were easy to grip. He unsheathed one blade and drew his finger along the smooth, cold metal, mined from the deepest caves of Anthaya, naturally resistant to magic.
Soundlessly he sheathed it again. With his experience in throwing weapons, his main weapon was the set of knives, good for long distance, but still functional in hand to hand combat.
His breath hitched as he came to the edge of a clearing. There, in the center, was a stage, surrounded with people. He knew it would be there. He knew who was performing. Carefully, he made his way along the trees to the back of the stage. The clear voice sliced through the silent air, telling a secret story.
Return to me,
Return to me,
On ocean waves
Of melody. . .
He loved the voice, and the person it belonged to. He knew what the song was about. It was about him. Even if it wasn't written about him, it was being sung about him.
He remembered that song, from so many years ago.
He remembered his friends.
He remembered the love, the moments, the kisses, the happiness.
He remembered his departure.
He remembered his bitterness, his guilt, his failure, the pain.
He remembered his long wandering, his worn and weary state.
He remembered his training, long, hard, and strict, but effective.
He remembered remembering.
He . . .
There. A movement in the shadows on the other side of the clearing. He had made his way around in front of the stage, still in the trees. Slowly, within the folds of his cloak, he drew the first of his knives.
He scanned for the dark silhouette. There. Drawing his arm up, he aimed.
He threw.
The bladed whistled quietly in the air, gliding over the heads of the unaware audience.
Its hilt struck the attacker perfectly in the head, just as he had begun to spring.
The singing stopped as the unconscious body fell to the stage mid-flight, just inches away from the frightened fairy.
People screamed and yelled in panic, some trying to get a closer look, some trying to get away.
But the beautiful fairy picked up the blade and studied it, looking up and seemingly staring straight at him. Riven, she mouthed, somehow sensing it with her heart.
He didn't move.
Executing a perfect throw, she sent the blade whirling back at him in the shadows. He caught it flawlessly, from years of practice.
Musa, he whispered, sheathing the blade. He carefully began to pull down his cowl.
As she began to smile, tears trailing down her face, her friends arrived next to her, blocking his view of her.
As he drew his hood back up, his hand brushed his cheek. It was wet.
He would have expected it to rain, but instead the sun broke out over the horizon, filling the clearing with beautiful light. Riven stole away, knowing he couldn't linger any longer.
He would cause her more pain, more suffering.
He would mess up and lose her forever.
He didn't deserve her.
He didn't deserve to even love her.
With one last look towards, the stage, he left, the ground watered with salt behind him.
Musa was annoyed with her friends. "I'm fine," she insisted for the fifth time. Finally, she was able to see through a gap in the wall of her friends. She focused on the spot where the figure had been.
No one was there.
She burst into tears, her friends crowding around her.
"Musa?"
"Ri- Riven w- was here," she sobbed, crying into her hands.
"Sweetie, it was probably just the shock-"
"NO! I know he was here. I- I saw him."
But they didn't believe her. Eventually, they took her to Nurse Ophelia.
"Yes, it's probably the post-trauma that caused this. Here, honey, take this. It will help you calm down and forget-"
She pulled away from her friends. "NO! I don't want to calm down. I saw him, I know it!"
"Please, Musa, trust us. Take it."
"No."
"I'm sorry, but we'll have to use force if you don't calm down."
"No. . ."
Weary from the long night, they were able to get her to take the medicine.
No, I can't forget, he really was there, I saw him. . . I. . . forget. . . won't. . .
As the medicine did its work she slowly relaxed. Miss Ophelia concentrated, making sure the magical remedy only worked on the desired part of her memory.
She blinked her eyes at her friends.
"So, do we know who hit the attacker?"
. . .
I know it didn't really bring angst around, but, I tried! Sorry if it was confusing. I wanted to make it kind of ambiguous. You can guess on the situation though, and I will try to reply to you (if you have an account).
Please review, flames are acceptable as long as it is constructive criticism and not unreasonable.
ITNOJ- SHB😉